


told me to never look back (well, I’m looking back)

by JustGail



Series: home is in your arms [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: (mentioned) - Freeform, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Takes a Bath, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Injured Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining, blink and you miss it really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29850168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustGail/pseuds/JustGail
Summary: "If you could choose,” Jaskier says, but he doesn’t finish the question.Geralt understands anyway.“No,” Geralt says. He’s used to answering Jaskier’s questions by now, but they’re so rarely this personal, he doesn’t know what to do besides answer. “I wouldn’t pick any other school.”“That’s good, then,” Jaskier says, “because I wouldn’t take you any other way, either.”//Counterpart fic towhen the hand you wanna hold is a weapon (and you're nothing but skin). Can be read as a standalone.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: home is in your arms [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2194563
Comments: 7
Kudos: 63
Collections: Best Geralt





	told me to never look back (well, I’m looking back)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Shower Day" by The Amazing Devil, because I Am Not Immune To TAD Lyrics.  
> I absolutely did not intend to write this, but the first line came to me and the rest of this was pulled out of me by force.  
> Once again, written in present tense, mostly to match the first fic.  
> This _can_ be read as a standalone, but I think it's better to read both. My personal opinion only.

And suddenly, it’s there: he loves him, and that’s that.

(“Twenty _years_ , Geralt,” Jaskier says to him later, tears in his eyes, and Geralt kisses them away, tasting salt and surrounded by the scent of chamomile and white tea.)

It isn’t anything special, the night Geralt realizes he loves him. It just is. Fire crackling and rabbits cooking and lute playing and the stars above them glistening, and Geralt looks at Jaskier and knows he loves him.

But that all came later. First, there was this:

An eighteen year old bard follows a witcher to the end of the world, and the witcher does his best to make sure he doesn’t get himself killed, because as annoying as the kid is, he’s just a _kid_ , and he doesn’t deserve to die, not here, not now, not just because he’s loud and brash and oh-so-very bard-like.

And then:

The bard and the witcher survive, and they come back from the end of the world, and the bard follows him still.

Jaskier is in the room when Geralt comes back from a hunt, dripping wet from rain and only barely ignoring the cold. “I’ll call for a bath,” he says before Geralt can even open his mouth, before he can ask. And when he comes back, he helps him, he knows how, at some point he learned. He _hums_ as he brings Geralt his potions bag and then rummages through their packs to find the needle and thread, stitches him up, even though it’s barely anything, and by morning it would heal and it would be nothing, nothing, just another scar. But Jaskier not only knows how to help, he _wants_ to help, and gods forgive him, Geralt wants to let him.

(It’s underneath his skin, this discomfort, like his insides are almost spilling out. It comes so close to becoming anger, before he remembers that witchers aren’t supposed to feel, that none of this is real, that none of this will last, that Jaskier is twenty, and he almost gets angry again, just thinking of that.)

The _thank you_ dies before it even forms in his mouth, and he gets into the bath.

It’s midday, and it’s blistering in the summer sun, and Geralt relents and leads them into a field with a stream and a sparse amount of trees for them to sit under.

“There are a lot of witcher schools, right?” Jaskier asks, although he’s facing away from him and clearly doing something with his hands. Geralt can’t quite make out what it is, but he supposes it doesn’t really matter.

“There were,” Geralt says, leaning back against the tree bark, so very tempted to close his eyes. “What about it?”

“If you could choose,” Jaskier says, but he doesn’t finish the question.

Geralt understands anyway.

“No,” Geralt says. He’s used to answering Jaskier’s questions by now, but they’re so rarely this personal, he doesn’t know what to do besides answer. “I wouldn’t pick any other school.” _This is what I know_ , he doesn’t say.

Jaskier looks deep in thought and remains briefly quiet, his eyes locked on whatever it is he’s doing with his hands. “That’s good, then,” Jaskier says, “because I wouldn’t take you any other way, either.”

Geralt wants to throw something. He settles for, “What are you doing, bard.”

“Oh, this?” he looks back at Geralt and grins, then leans forward and very quickly puts something on Geralt’s head. He grabs it and holds it in front of him as Jaskier continues, “It’s a flower crown. I thought it suited you.”

It is, indeed, a flower crown, made with small flowers with a yellow center and blue petals, five each.

“Forget-me-nots,” Jaskier says. “There’s a patch of them over there. I grabbed them while you were tending to Roach.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, and puts the crown on Jaskier’s head instead.

It suits him.

He tries not to think of the color of Jaskier’s eyes.

“So I was thinking,” Jaskier says to him.

“Never a good sign,” Geralt replies automatically. He’s tending to his armor; he needs to get it properly mended soon, maybe even replaced, although it’s still perfectly serviceable, for now.

“Ha-ha, very funny. As I was _saying_ , I was thinking that I might want to go home.”

Geralt stops. “And where would that be?”

Five years. Five _years_ and he has no idea what Jaskier calls home.

“Lettenhove,” Jaskier says. “It’s in Kerack.”

There’s a moment where nobody says anything.

“I was hoping you’d accompany me, actually,” Jaskier says, and he almost manages to make it sound offhanded. “My cousin is getting married, and I’m expected to be there.”

Geralt hums. “When?”

“Three weeks,” Jaskier says quickly, as if that will make it any less ridiculous. They’d have to leave tomorrow, the next day at the latest.

Oh, fuck, Geralt is entertaining the thought of _actually_ going.

They leave the next day.

Lettenhove isn’t unique in any way, but it feels strange to be there, nonetheless. Like he’s seeing something that he shouldn’t. Discovering something about Jaskier this isn’t his to know. Unbalanced.

It’s strange, too, because Jaskier doesn’t act the way he expected him to. There’s something… missing. This should be his home, but the way he looks –

Maybe this isn’t his home after all.

Oxenfurt. It must be Oxenfurt.

What else?

Jaskier wakes suddenly in the middle of the night, almost every night, and Geralt pretends that he doesn’t know. He knows what’s troubling him, and he doesn’t know how he could possibly help.

Rinde was _his_ fault, after all.

Witchers don’t have friends, but sometimes he really wishes they did, because Jaskier needs his help, all of the time, but he also takes care of him, and it makes his chest ache in a way he doesn’t understand, a magnificent pain that he holds dear.

“You’re not my friend,” he says.

“You don’t get to decide that,” Jaskier responds, and the needle in his arm almost hurts more than the familiar beat of his heart.

And then, it’s this:

Jaskier tells him that he’s not allowed to leave him, and he almost promises him he won’t.

And then, it’s this:

Jaskier isn’t eighteen anymore.

And then, it’s this:

Geralt loves Jaskier, and Jaskier can never know.

And then, it’s this:

They kiss in the woods, and the ache spreads to every bit of him, and it’s only when Jaskier finally pushes in that he remembers how to breathe.

“Something’s different about you,” Eskel tells him. It’s so cold outside that even they feel it, huddled around the fire as they are, and every word they utter seems to penetrate the oppressive quiet of the keep.

Geralt doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just hums in response.

Eskel leans closer, his voice only just barely above a whisper. “I know you, Geralt. You’re quiet, but you’re not mute. Something’s on your mind.” And then, “Is it the bard?”

Geralt can’t help it; he flinches.

“Well, that answers that,” Eskel says. “I’ll get the White Gull.”

“Have you told him you love him?”

“Of course not.”

“Why?”

“Because he doesn’t need me. All I’ll do is hurt him. And – “

“And?”

“Why would he choose me, when there’s anybody, everybody else?”

“You should go to him,” Eskel tells him as the winter comes to an end. The snow hasn’t finished melting yet, but it’s well on its way, and it’s the muddy slush it turns into when there’s no new snow to replace the old snow. He doesn’t have to clarify who he’s referring to; they’ve been talking about him all winter. Or, Eskel brings him up, and Geralt begrudgingly responds. “Now, before he leaves Oxenfurt. And you should tell him.”

“I can’t,” Geralt says, but he goes anyway, because he’s weak, and he misses his bard, and the snow isn’t gone but it’s melted enough to make it down the mountain anyway.

Geralt spends three blissful weeks in Oxenfurt, and every day he almost tells Jaskier the truth, and every day he doesn’t.

They kiss in the shade of an oak tree that’s probably older than Vesemir, and the passion of it makes Geralt so angry he wants to uproot it. Instead he lets Jaskier lead him to the lodgings they’ve been sharing, and Geralt trembles at every touch, and it’s so big, and he almost tells him, almost, almost, almost.

And then:

A whispered “I love you”, when Jaskier thinks Geralt is asleep.

He leaves before Jaskier wakes, and convinces himself that this was the right thing to do. Jaskier deserves so much more than him.

He falls into Yennefer’s arms, again, and again, and again.

It would be so much easier if he would fall in love with her.

He goes back to Cintra, to get his Child Surprise, but it isn’t until the world seems to end around him that he finds her.

“Who’s Yennefer?” she asks, and he doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing.

He never does say enough. At least, not when it matters.

(With Yennefer, he always said too much.)

He’s ill, is the thing. And it’s not like he’s had time to stock up since Cintra.

He almost wishes he’d never found Ciri, because the last thing he wants is for her to see him die like this, but it seems inevitable, now.

The first thing he notices is the scent: chamomile and white tea, but also soured milk, the way Jaskier always smells when he’s worried about him.

Which means Jaskier is here.

He opens his eyes, and looks straight at the man he loves, and all he can say is:

“Jaskier.”

And Jaskier looks back at him, and Geralt can’t for the life of him understand this expression, and all he says in reponse is:

“Geralt.”

“Geralt!” Ciri cries, and Jaskier has to hold her back from jumping on him. It’s good that he does, because Geralt’s not sure his ribs can deal with that kind of force yet. She may be small, but she’s deceptively heavy, for a thirteen year old.

“Hey, little cub,” he says, and he can’t help but smile at her. “I’m alright, I promise.”

“Or he will be, at least,” Jaskier says.

Ciri doesn’t look convinced. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” Jaskier says flippantly. “I’ve seen him in much worse condition, and he always survived.”

Geralt doesn’t need his sense of smell to know that Jaskier is lying. But he’ll survive. He has to.

For his daughter.

“Are you coming with us?” Ciri asks Jaskier, no doubt thinking Geralt is out of hearing range.

“I don’t think so,” Jaskier says, and Geralt hates the way he sounds, like there’s no other option, like Geralt doesn’t desperately want him with them, safe, in Kaer Morhen.

 _With us_ , he thinks. And then, _With me_.

He doesn’t look back, but he wishes for the courage to.

Jaskier is downstairs, playing for the meager audience there is to be had in this small town. In their room, Ciri insists on braiding Geralt’s hair, and he can’t tell her no.

It’s nice.

It makes him think of all the times Jaskier would –

Well, it doesn’t matter.

He probably doesn’t even love Geralt anymore.

Which is good.

It’s what he wanted.

Ciri goes to sleep while the fire still burns, and Geralt looks at Jaskier, smelling of chamomile oil and underneath it of white tea, always white tea, and he says, “I’m not ready to let you go.”

Jaskier’s scent is now overwhelmed by spoiled wine when he says, “That’s not fair,” as if he’s going to cry any moment, and Geralt, as usual, hates himself.

And what can he say, except the truth?

“I know it’s not. I don’t know how to fix it.”

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Jaskier softly, and Geralt wants to tell him, he always wants to tell him, but the words lodge in his throat, and Jaskier goes to sleep, and Geralt lies awake for hours yet, reaching for Jaskier, waits for the dawn.

“You asked me, once,” Geralt says, “if I would take you home.”

Jaskier merely looks at him. Geralt knows he hasn’t said enough, yet, but he so desperately wants to know.

“But… it wasn’t home, was it?” he continues, carefully weighing each word. “I… I could tell. You were… different. _Subdued_. I’d never seen you like that.”

Jaskier glances at Ciri, riding Pegasus, Jaskier’s horse, up ahead. “No,” he admits. “Lettenhove isn’t home.”

Geralt feels a strange sort of pride. _I know you_ , he thinks. “What is?”

Jaskier looks at him, long and hard, and then runs up to Ciri and asks if they can share Pegasus again, because his legs are tired, and Geralt knows it’s probably true, but it doesn’t make it hurt less that he doesn’t want to talk to Geralt, just when he’s finally started to find his words.

They can afford two rooms, this time, and Ciri gets her own room.

“Are you sure you want to be alone?” he asks, and she doesn’t hesitate before answering in the affirmative, and he knows he’s probably being paranoid, but he just –

He worries, is all.

He’s pacing in the room he’s sharing with Jaskier, who tries to reassure him she’ll be fine, and Geralt does his best to believe him.

Jaskier blows out the candle, and in the dark, Geralt can see him, and he so wants to say -

“I’m sorry.”

And Jaskier says, “What. The fuck.”

Which is fair.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt repeats.

“What the fuck are you sorry for?”

“Everything,” Geralt says, because it’s true, but it’s not like it’s a surprise when Jaskier says:

“I hate you. That isn’t enough.”

Geralt shudders. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for – I’m sorry for what I said to you on that mountain. I’m sorry for treating you like shit for years. I’m sorry for never letting you be my friend.” He gathers all his strength to say, “I’m sorry…”

He’s never wanted so much to be a coward before. And it’s not like he isn’t capable of running away, but he doesn’t want to, not from this.

Jaskier stays silent, and Geralt says, “I’m sorry for leaving after that night in Oxenfurt.” And, “I’m sorry I let you wake up without me.”

“You heard me,” Jaskier says. “Shit. I’m – “

“Don’t – “ Geralt sighs. “Can I just – can I just finish?”

Jaskier nods once.

“I did. I did hear you. And I panicked. I _couldn’t_. I couldn’t let you love me.” He wants to –

He wants so much.

“All I can do – I destroy everything I touch, Jask. I didn’t want to destroy you.”

Jaskier whispers, “You did anyway,” and Geralt can smell the salt before it comes. Jaskier starts crying, and he’s going to kiss those tears away, if he’ll let him.

“I know. And I have never regretted anything more. But – you terrify me, Jask,” he begs. “Like nothing has ever terrified me. I can face any creature, any monster in the world. I can live with all my mistakes. But you – you’re my ruination. You terrify me.

“And I have never wanted anything more.”

“I love you,” Jaskier tells him, choking on his tears.

“I know,” Geralt says. “Please forgive me.”

“Jaskier,” he says, “I need to tell you something.”

He’s kissed the tears off Jaskier’s cheeks, and he can’t hold it in anymore.

“What?” Jaskier says sleepily, clearly on the verge of falling asleep.

He doesn’t hesitate. “I love you,” he tells him, “and I _have_ loved you. For… so long. For years.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, and he kisses Geralt, and it’s –

He can’t express it in words.

“Jaskier,” he says again. “Can I ask – “

Jaskier smiles, and Geralt can see it so clearly in the moonlight. “What is it?”

“Your home,” he says simply.

“Ah,” Jaskier says, and turns to lie on his back. “I thought – I was sure you’d have figured it out by now.”

Geralt reaches out for Jaskier’s hand, and squeezes it once, twice, three times.

“It’s you, you idiot,” he says. “It’s always been you.”

“Come to Kaer Morhen with us,” Geralt replies, because what else is there?

“Of course,” Jaskier says. “Haven’t you realized? I’d follow you anywhere."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed <3  
> Don't forget to leave a kudos and comment, if that's at all your thing.  
> Love,  
> JustGail


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